Routine
by Reizo Myu
Summary: "You don't have to work to understand it anymore." Rated M. Not for sensetive readers.


**AN:** PLEASE READ. Hello there, this is Reizo and I'd like to start off this off with a thank you to all the Ducklings out there, as well as Mama Duck. You all know who you are ;) so thanks to every last one of you for inspiring me. As a note to my readers, this is vastly different from what I've done in the past. It's much darker and has considerably murkier undertones than anything I've written in the past. It is a change of pace for me, but I believe a good one. A word of caution: this is _not _like my other work. And with that, this is the first of what is to become (hopefully) a collection of drabbles. I'd like to point out that I feel the Apprentice Era took place over a longer period of time than shown in the episode. Take that into account and the time span of this story will make much more sense.

Also, huge thank you to **Paineverlasting**, my beta, who contributed to, edited, and helped fine tune this story. Send many thanks their way, for being so helpful and inspiring.

**Rating:** R, for an overall dark tone and psychological as well as physical manipulation. Strong undertones. Sensitive readers be warned. If you want to be FF technical about it, it's an M.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Teen Titans nor do I have, in my possession, their amazing one-eyed nemesis... and now I'm sad.

* * *

**Routine**

You don't have to work to understand it anymore.

It has become routine. It is your daily practice. Your days run like clockwork and the schedule is the only way you can tell time. You know when to do what at every time of the day simply by actions. It is a primitive habit you have defaulted to in your time at the hideaway.

This is the way it works: You wake up. He makes you get dressed. He makes you eat. He makes you drink. He makes you train. He fixes you up. He makes you eat. He allows you time to yourself. He makes you go to his crude idea of a school. He makes you eat. He sends you to your room. He makes you undress. He leaves you alone. You fall asleep. There is no need to elaborate. That's all there is to it. You'll wake up again and again in the same, monotonous routine.

The day he breaks the routine is the day you feel yourself shatter, yet it begins like any other.

You wake up ten minutes before he comes in to get you. In these ten minutes you stare at the ceiling and wonder about your family and your friends. You think about nothing else because you are certain you won't be able to control yourself if your thoughts drift. You do this because you have to, not because you want to. You plan many reunions and think of all the ways you can make it up to them. You chastise yourself for being too small, too young, too weak, and too _stubborn_ to have stopped the inevitable. You don't cry, but you can feel tears stinging behind your eyes, dying to give you the emotional release you crave. Still, this is the habit. You refuse to cry. When he comes in to wake you up, you avoid his gaze and sit up.

You dress slowly, methodically. He doesn't leave, but you've learned since the first time; you no longer ask him to do so. There are no pleading glances or attempts to hide in the shadows and you most certainly do _not _swear at him. Every time rebellion trickles into your mind your nose remembers the feeling of his fist pressing down, _crushing_, and that trickle evaporates. You will try not to notice the colors of the uniform, but you do and you undoubtedly frown. He will chuckle at the displeasure on your face and you hold your tongue. While he occasionally finds your sarcasm amusing, you know by now not to judge the man by his current demeanor. One wrong word and you'll be doing push ups until your arms give out.

He pulls you from the room and you have to eat. Whether or not you are hungry doesn't matter. You. Must. Eat. You are positive he doesn't make the food, but it is him who gives it to you and you know to finish off every crumb of the meal and drain every last drop of liquid. It will always occur to you that you never see him eat. Should he try to engage you in conversation, you struggle to keep it about your friends. You keep their faces in your head as you finish your meal, willing you to be strong and not give in. They act as your conscience, warning you of what will happen should you think about yourself for too long. No matter what he might say, you always remind him of the control that keeps you captive, despite wincing when you notice his eye narrow. He doesn't like that. He never does and he never fails to remind you that this isn't about your friends. It's about you.

He always manages to turn your words against you. He is a master at manipulating your emotions and you recognize that, but you never say it aloud. Anything that lets him know he has a hold on you is not allowed to slip through your lips. With your meal finished, you know it is time for pain and you almost wince with every step towards the area where you will train with him. You have ignored your soreness all morning, but with the impending threat of more injuries, you scowl. Much as you hate your new clothes, you can't help but feel grateful for the mask. If he saw how many times he's already put you close to tears with the day barely having begun, you'd never have been able to bear looking at him again. You know by now that your mask hides your identity, but never your mood. Another memory comes to mind, a time you rolled your eyes. You still have no idea _how _he knew, but your throat had bruises for a week from the way he held you up against the wall. The bruises were a reminder of how precious your identity still _is_. He could order you to remove the mask entirely and that is something you are certain would wound you more than the inevitable match you find yourself trapped in.

The fight starts. You can never hit him. You've already learned to stop complaining. You only try your hardest. He appreciates that, but he doesn't take it easy on you. You could never forgive him if he did. You train for hours. You train until your old wounds are bleeding and your new ones are practically gushing your life source. In fact, you continue to train long after the taste of blood enters your mouth and you still force yourself to think of your friends. He notices you watching his wrist and the compartment on it that holds the controller. He will try to remove their faces out of your mind's eye with banter, but you keep the focus on your friends. You may snort once in a while, but you don't talk back. You can _think_ though and so you think all you can between blocking exercises and offensive maneuvers. It's almost as though you're stockpiling insults for later. When you think you may finally snap, he draws back and you recognize that the fight is over.

He will attend to your wounds. You refuse to look at him as he sews up new gashes and rubs ointment on your bruises. Behind your mask, your eyes are closed tight. You think about Raven, and Cyborg, and Starfire, and Beast Boy: it's not always that order but they come to mind one by one, forcing you to remember your task. You have to withhold. You power through the visits to the makeshift infirmary, holding your head high and pushing away the feeling of his hands on your skin. You ignore the not soft, but not rough texture of the fabric of his gloves and you pretend it doesn't leave you with goose bumps. When it is over, you falter. You almost thank him. The glint in his shadowed eye tells you that he knows and you pull your clothes back on, wincing as you do. You try not to think that he has possibly saved your life by stopping the fight to patch you up. You try to think of your friends, but the relief his special balm is bringing your sore muscles is overwhelming. As he takes you to lunch, you try your hardest to conjure up memories of Titan's Tower, but it seems blurry, like another life.

You manage another meal despite the faint, lingering taste of copper in your mouth and the single eye that never seems to leave you. You have been informed that you are allowed to relax for exactly one hour every day after lunch. You are moving away from your clean plat before you realize it, your body working on autopilot. You return to your designated quarters and look around it. First, your eyes linger on the bed, but that only leads to dangerous thinking. You will quickly avert your eyes to the small shelf you've been allowed. You have no idea why it's there. You only know that it is as empty as your first day with him. The room is small, relatively the same size as the one in the tower. Thinking about the tower in this one hour you have helps you stay grounded. You try to make sense of the automatic, machine-like mind he's left you with during your stay with him. If your thoughts venture to him, however, you shut them down and bring back memories of your friends. There is something else connected to the man that you shut out at all costs.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of your door opening. You turn around, terrified. You know it can't possibly have been an hour yet, but you don't dare say that to the figure in the doorway. Another part of the routine is that, no matter what time of day, he is not questioned. There is a difference between asking a question and being questioning. Being questioning will hurt, but asking a question during your schooling is permitted. He's taken that particular, inquisitive trait you bear and stripped you of it. It hurts too much to try, anyways. You want to avoid the pain, but your mind is reeling as he stands in your doorway, gauging your reaction to his sudden appearance. Still, you do not question it. The biting words you think remind you of the time you snapped "what?" while he observed you. Your ribs cringe at the reminder of how bruised they were and the insults you were thinking disappear as quickly as they came. You've learned to live by a routine, physically and mentally. You have no idea how he could break it with the simple act of opening a door before the time comes.

"I'm sending you out on your second assignment tonight, Robin. Perhaps you've learned to listen to me, hm?" he says, his tone betraying his amusement. You tremble, trying to remember when the last time he's said so much to you was. You try to think back, but you are still too confused by this strange turn of events. There are fragments of you, pieces that are screaming you can't possibly be this disoriented after such a short time. But it doesn't feel like a short time. You were used to being out every day, running, and laughing, and fighting. The change was so uprooting, _of course_ you can't understand why he would break the painstaking, depriving schedule he worked so hard to instill in you. But he is expecting an answer, so you force yourself to speak out.

"Yes, sir," you say, your voice telling him everything he needs to know about your strife. He knows this is not an answer to his question, merely a recognition that he will force you to fight them again. This time, he won't allow you to slip away into the night, masked by a cloud of smoke. That was what went wrong the first time. He moves towards your bed, sitting down on the edge of it gesturing for you to do the same. Your teeth grind together, but you obey. It goes against what you've been taught and you keep expecting him to lash out. You almost want him to take hold of your jaw, just to keep up the routine. When he chuckles, it unnerves you. You know you're not supposed to show defiance, but now you have and for some reason he _isn't_ hurting you. You can't understand it and you feel a blankness washing over you as you try. You can feel him watching you, but you can only stare at the wall. It occurs to you that you must look how you feel: empty.

"I have no doubt your little friends will be there. You had better prepare yourself," he continues to laugh, making you more nervous. When he stands, you don't move to follow. You are transfixed on this turn of events. You don't move once he leaves the room. You only stare at the wall, trying to remember why it was so important to think about them. You know it makes the situation seem less dire, but you can no longer recall why it began. It was like the routine. You can remember times when you didn't _have_ to do anything you need to do to feel normal now. You only know that around the time the routine started, you began to force yourself to remember your friends... they warded off thoughts of something else. Something about _him_. You can't think beyond that point, certain that you will break if you do more than think of them telling you it will be ok. That you'll make it through.

You manage to sit there for the rest of the hour, trying to figure out what it is you have blocked out. It frustrates you, not knowing things anymore, but what frustrates you more is that the answer is there, just beyond When he comes for you again, you stand and follow him, relaxing into the routine. School today is different. He is briefing you on your assignment. The mention of Wayne Enterprises causes you to flinch, just barely. It would be nearly imperceptible were it not for your now usual, rigid stance. If he notices this, he doesn't let you know. He continues to talk and you listen, taking in all the information he gives you and planning to follow his instructions down to the last detail. You plan to get in quickly and get out just as fast. Some part of you wants to remember your first theft, but you ignore it. Instead, you summon up the images of your friends.

The night breaks open, covering Jump in darkness. You are sent out and, as you race through the city(_your city_) you can't help it. The blood pumping doesn't mean pain. No, pain is when you try to run, but can't escape. Real pain is having no escape, no outlet whatsoever. This is _freedom_. You want the freedom so badly you can practically taste it. You're craving it like a junkie after their fix. And you realize -after launching yourself over a gap between skyscrapers- that you _are_ a junkie. The months of stifling activity and monotonous routine were eating you from the inside out. Slade took this from you, but he has already proven he can give as well... like he gave you a gift for your first accomplishment. As you run your first night comes back to you. You attempt to think of your friends again, but they can't help you now, just as they couldn't help you then.

_Your first time. How precious._

Of course it had been your first time. You had wanted to scream at him for robbing you of that; he took the innocence you held and shattered it. He _made_ you steal and then forced you to see you'd enjoyed it. The moment you stole for him he had released a strange animal. He unleashed the depravity you had so skillfully locked away and you'd gone back to him intent on making him pay. When faced with what you'd done, what he'd done to you, you fought back. That was the cause for the routine. That was the reason to the rhyme. That was what you were forcing yourself not to remember, covering up with your friends, who would undoubtedly comfort you. What he said was unthinkable until now... now that you know you're about to do it again.

_There's no way for you to take back your morality, Robin. Whatever you do for the rest of your life, you'll always know this: I was the first. I took your virtue before anyone else could and I don't intend to comfort you on the subject. I will only inform you that this is an undeniable fact. You can never take back something as pure as what I now will hold. I'm your first Robin._

You want to feel shame at the memory. You want to feel disgust at the crude metaphor he's drawn and how it's stuck itself in your head. But the adrenaline refuses you the comfort of disgust and you laugh harshly as you practically fly through the city. It's ironic really, that after all the horrible thoughts about it you would still choose this over the routine. You would rather feel the delightful rush of blood, the wind whipping through your hair, and the satisfaction of a bad job done well than you would feel the unbearable limitation of the routine. The truth was he had been right; nothing could compare to the thrill. That kind of thinking is why you've avoided the memory and anything that might lead to it. You can't think about him in bed during the early hours of morning, you can't let yourself think about him putting his hands on your during training, and you definitely cannot think about this twisted reward system. You have to surrender yourself to the adrenaline and let instinct take over, soak in _this _reward as long as you can.

And as you break in to your father's company and face off with the Titans, you find solace in that at least their faces have stayed the same. You haven't forgotten them just as they have obviously not forgotten you. You feel less weak when you see them. They will save you from this hellish nightmare. You see their determination and it gives you a renewed sense of hope. There is suddenly a reason to go back and fight Slade, something departing from the routine. You realize you can break it, with the help of your friends. It's not about only you, it's about all of them too. They will save you from his apprenticeship, if it kills them.

As it turns out... it almost does. But you have never been more grateful than in the aftermath of that long night, spent fighting the Titans and your "master." The blood pounding in your ears, the red lights flashing overhead, and the beautiful, bright light of morning just outside the door are welcome assaults on your senses. After so long, you just want to go home.

* * *

You don't have to work to understand it anymore.

It has become routine. It is your daily practice. Your days run like clockwork and the schedule is the only way you can tell time. You know when to do what at every time of the day simply by actions. It is a primitive habit you have defaulted to in your time at the Tower.

This is the way it works: you will wake up in the morning, listen to arguments, fight off some idiotic, simple villains who couldn't throw a punch to save their lives, then return home. At home, you'll sit around, maybe eat or drink something incredibly unhealthy, and then you'll go to your room. You will toss and turn and try not to think about him, as you used to every night. You will try, but you will fail. Eventually you will fall asleep and you'll dream about him and what he told you.

_Your first time. How precious._

Yes, it had been your first time. But it hadn't been your last. The last time you tried, you failed to finish and that, for some reason, leaves an empty space in your stomach. You will try to ignore it, but given time it only grows larger. It doesn't help that the object of your constant fixation has disappeared. You feel if you could at least direct this strange mix of conflicting emotions at him you could break free. It seems only natural that he wouldn't even allow you the solace of seeking him out.

Slowly but surely, this new routine becomes more of a prison than the last one. You still train on occasion, but it's never enough. If your team sees you pushing yourself too hard, they grow worried and you have to stop before you can reach that delicious high. You can't ever get enough. No one will _let_ you get enough. You barely break a sweat anymore. The empty space grows wider, threatening to swallow you. You put all of your efforts back into being a hero. You had no idea how much your innocence meant until you find your patience wearing. Even slipping into your Robin uniform every morning begins to feel tedious. It used to feel like you were taking on a responsibility, becoming the hero strove to be. Now, it's just like you're putting on a brightly colored disguise. For all intensive purposes, you are.

The Titans still joke about how serious you are, but they don't seem to notice that you don't laugh it off so much anymore. You _are_ serious. If everyone else in the city has to be childish, let them. This juvenile state the others are trapped in has only made the villains easier to take down. If anyone notices this newer, colder point of view, they don't mention it. Things go on as they always have and (you dread) always will. Some part of you is constantly on the verge of snapping. Days become weeks and those weeks are filled with doctors afraid of the dark and a constantly escaping glob of plasma. With every battle cry, every blocked punch, and every simple take down, you grow more and more restless. The villains can no longer hold your attention and you slowly withdraw to your room.

There is only one villain constantly on your mind. He is the only person who has ever challenged you enough, the only person who has ever worked you hard enough... the only person who has ever understood enough about you to push you past your limits. Your dreams begin to change and every night you grow more and more restless. It's bad enough to be dreaming about the man at all, but at least you could handle nightmares. With nightmares, you could wake up covered in a sheen of sweat and drown yourself in the shame of weakness. What you can't handle is the red tinted, sweat slicked, blood pumping dreams that have you waking up with his name on your lips and your back arching clear off the bed. The first time this happens, you almost panic. You wake up wondering if he's come to reclaim you, but as time moves on, you stand with resolve. You will _never_ let that happen. No one can tell you to back down and being a hero has become the only thing left in the growing void.

The empty space only grows larger and larger, forcing you out on later patrols. You try to stop sleeping, which doesn't work of course. Every night you sleep you dream of him and the release only he can give you. You are thankful for the mask for the first time in a very long time: it covers the shadows under your eyes and the guilt in your all too expressive blue irises. You fear the exposure of your secret. You can never feel properly ashamed of it though. How can you when the dreams break the horrible revelation that, before him, your life was practically as exciting as proof-reading a phone book? The dreams, along with your hero-work, has become a route to escape. You continue to deny yourself, some deeper part of you crying out to be let free. Then... one night... it happens.

You're out on another patrol, gazing down sternly at the city you've dedicated yourself to. The night has been incredibly quiet, almost lulling the citizens into a false sense of security, and it is grating on your nerves. If you could just bury your fist in some dealer's face, you could at least feel some grim satisfaction in your ability to keep in shape. You scoff coldly, dark humor clouding your thoughts at the conception that the villains in this town might actually be trying to drive you so crazy, you'll end up back in Gotham in Arkham Asylum. A sneer briefly crosses your features and, not for the first time, you contemplate that this may not be a bad option. If this tedium existence continues, you would welcome drooling into the floor at Arkham.

The pair of arms trapping you against a hard, warm chest is such a shock you cry out. No one can sneak up on your these days; it seems inhuman to succeed. But the dry chuckle is instantly recognizable and you feel your cheeks go red at all the inferences of the shout. He's not supposed to see you weak anymore, after all you've promised to stand firm. You don't have time to rebuke him, however, when he slams you into a wall and all the blood in your face rushes somewhere else. So many dreams started out just like this... You're back to being helpless, but you still try to fight. Stubborn to the end, you know that not fighting is not an option. His steel eye sparks with amusement as he looks down at you through the mask, taking in the way you writhe.

"Now Robin, none of that. I've kept a close eye on you. I didn't come here to talk to you. I'd much rather hear _you_ scream _my_ name," he practically purrs in your ear. The fear overwhelms you at the implication of those words. Your breathing hitches as terror courses through your veins, bringing your spent adrenal gland back to life. You're sure he can't possibly _know_. But, he does and you feel your head fall back against the brick in resignation. You've put it off for so long.

Your blood is rushing, your breathing is heavy, and his hands holding you down, _forcing _you to try your hardest is altogether too much. You've avoided the satisfaction this brings you. It's been such a long time that you need (no longer want, _need_) what he's offering you. And it _is_ an offer, because you realize he hasn't moved. He is stock still, keeping you exactly as you are until you answer him. So you do the only thing you can. You struggle against him, but he sees it as the challenge it is instead of a rejection. He keeps you down, his hand traveling across your chest. You bite down on your lip, your eyes tearing up behind the mask. You know what you're about to do, but you are hypnotized by the wondrous rush. When he releases you, you don't fight anymore. You cling to him. You are captive to his fingers dancing across your skin, tracing towards a forbidden region, lower and lower until-

"_Slade!_"

* * *

You don't have to work to understand it anymore. This is your routine. It has been for so long, you've simply learned to live with it.

This is the way it works: You wake up. You fight him with everything you have and it is never enough. He captures you and your blood rushes.

Then you lose.


End file.
